Choosing peace over perfection, rebuilding a healthier me

 This is a topic I struggled to speak about for many years. I’m still not sure whether it was shame, embarrassment, or simply the fear of being misunderstood, but for a long time, I carried it quietly. After years of therapy and a great deal of personal work, I finally feel that I’m in a better place when it comes to my thoughts and feelings about body image, health, and the many disorders that so often arise from society’s impossible beauty standards.

I grew up in a house where diets were the norm—where beauty standards weren’t just something you noticed; they were something you lived by. My mother, even now in her 60s, is beautiful. She always has been. And when you grow up watching someone so effortlessly embody what the world calls “pretty,” it changes you. I don’t blame her. I really don’t. But her relationship with her own appearance shaped mine long before I even understood what that meant.

By the time I was 15, I was exhausted—exhausted from being “that friend,” the one who was always just a friend and never anything more. I was tired of feeling overlooked, tired of being pushed aside, and most of all, tired of feeling uncomfortable in my own skin. My OCD tendencies amplified these feelings. When I commit to something, I don’t do it halfway. And so it began.

Within a few months, I had dropped half my body weight. When I look back at my matric dance photos now, my stomach sinks. It was a beautiful night filled with special memories, but I can’t ignore what I now know: I didn’t just look sick—I was sick.

Hours at the gym every single day.
Cutting out foods until I was eating almost nothing.
Constant body checking.
Chasing numbers, pushing limits, shrinking myself in every possible way.

On the outside, I finally looked like I had achieved everything I had always wanted. I had validation. Attention. A partner. But inside, I was unraveling. My self-harm worsened. My self-hatred grew sharper. Even with the “perfect” body I thought I needed, I was deeply, desperately unhappy.

Not long after matriculating, I found out I was pregnant with my eldest son, and in an instant, my world flipped upside down. To say that my children saved me would be an understatement. I wanted so badly to be healthy, to give my son the best start in life, and that desire became my anchor.

I gained a lot of weight during that pregnancy, but after he was born, I managed to lose much of it. By the time I had my second son, though, something in me shifted again. I gained more weight than ever before and sank into one of the darkest periods of my life. His pregnancy was heavy—not just physically, but emotionally. I was deeply depressed, utterly exhausted, and shortly after he was born, I went through a divorce filled with constant fighting and anxiety. It was one of the hardest seasons I’ve ever lived through.

In the years that followed, I went on to have my third son, but between and around those pregnancies, I lost five babies. My mental health swung from one extreme to the other, and my weight—and the way I viewed my body—rose and fell right alongside it. It felt as if every part of me was constantly shifting, constantly fighting to find some sense of balance in a world that kept pulling me in opposite directions.

Then came 2023.

I reached a breaking point—or maybe a turning point. I was older, a little wiser, and deeply tired of extremes. Tired of diets. Tired of the war I kept waging against myself. I didn’t care what I weighed anymore. I just wanted peace. Health. A life I didn’t need to recover from.

So I joined the 5am club.
And strangely, beautifully, it changed my life.

Waking up early became a small promise to myself:
You’re up, so get dressed.
You’re dressed, so go.
You’re there, so stay.
You stayed—look at you.
Tomorrow, do it again.

Those tiny steps reshaped my mornings, then my days, then my sense of self. The gym became more than a place to move—it became a place to breathe, to connect, to feel human again.

I even started running, something I never imagined I’d do. Every time I thought about trying, I’d find an excuse: you’ll look ridiculous, you won’t manage it, people will stare. Then one day I just said, “Stuff it,” and went for it. After three minutes, I was huffing like I was dying, but I kept going. Within a month, I could run 7 km without stopping. An injury later forced me to slow down, but it also taught me patience. And the point is: I did it. I’m still doing it. Not for weight loss. Not for anyone else. For me.

For the first time since I was a teenager, I’m eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner. That hasn’t happened in decades. I’m enjoying my food while staying mindful of what I put into my body. If I want chocolate, I have it. There’s no bingeing, no guilt. There are no “good” or “bad” foods—just food. I’m a human being sustaining my life, and I’m finally enjoying it instead of criticising myself for it.

And for the first time in a very long time, the number on the scale doesn’t control my mood. After two years of going to the gym five days a week—with a beach walk or extra session on Sundays—I haven’t lost a single kilogram. But I can see and feel the changes, mentally and physically. Does that mean I’m magically cured? No. Disordered thoughts and societal pressures still creep in. But I’m much better equipped to handle them, and to channel that negativity into something genuinely constructive.

Maybe that’s why I can speak about all of this now. Because for the first time in my life, I feel genuinely open. I don’t have daughters, but I’ve watched these pressures seep into my sons’ lives too. That’s when I realised: body image, mental health, and self-worth aren’t “female” issues. They’re human issues. No one is immune.

And if you’ve spent time on YouTube over the years, you’ve seen the shift—stricter policies around content that glamorises eating disorders or self-harm. I’ve watched the evolution of those communities myself: creators spiraling publicly, creators recovering, reaction channels caught somewhere in between. It’s been eye-opening, sometimes heartbreaking. And it’s shown me how powerful and dangerous these online spaces can be.

I believe in speaking openly about these struggles. I believe in honesty, vulnerability, and compassion. But content that glamorises harm should never be platformed for profit—not when so many people are quietly drowning behind their screens. There’s a difference between sharing your story to help, and sharing it in a way that fuels destruction.

Healthier conversations start with us—with choosing to uplift instead of harm, to tell the truth instead of hiding, to share stories in ways that build bridges rather than walls.

If we can do that, maybe we can create a world where healing feels possible.
Where bodies are not battlegrounds.
Where being human—messy, flawed, imperfect—finally feels like enough.

I cannot believe that we got here.

 

If you had told me 10 years ago—when we were truly in the thick of things with Loghan—that we would get to see him matriculate, that he would be handing out CVs and booking his learner’s test, I am not sure I would have believed you. At that stage, living day to day, waiting for the next crisis to hit, the next appointment, the next school meeting, the next meltdown, it was an incredibly difficult time and continued to be so for years.

Yet here we are, and I am so incredibly proud of how far he has come and how far we have all come as a family. At the end of the day, it has taken a nonstop fight, and quite frankly, the resources and paths available for neurodivergent children and adults— not only in South Africa but internationally—are still shocking.

One day, leading up to the end of Loghan’s final exams, he climbed into my car, and I could see he was down. I asked him what was wrong, and after much coaxing, the words that came out of his mouth were, “I just wish that I could be normal… that people would treat me like a normal child.”

I had to catch the tears, take a breath, and tell him: “There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. You have just as much right to be here—to write exams, make friends, learn, grow, and express yourself. You can achieve everything you put your mind to. And I know this because I have travelled this journey with you. I have fought with you and alongside you. Over the years, we’ve gathered an amazing support system—family and chosen family—and they know, just as I do, who you are and how far you have come.”

Just to put a pin in it here: it wasn’t his teachers or peers who made him feel this way. It was actually someone who was supposed to be there as a support for him—someone who has travelled their own road in this space and should know what it feels like to be different. And that is something I’ve learnt along the way: sometimes the people within the very community you seek strength from can be the ones who make you feel ashamed or “out of place,” and that quite frankly sucks.

Be that as it may, it didn’t take long for Loghan to stand up again and push through the hurt he was feeling. The strength of my child—and of every neurodivergent child—is a force to be reckoned with. I will say it again: I am so proud of how far we have come, and I know we will continue to push forward.

And as we step into this next chapter—new challenges, new hopes, new victories—I want Loghan to know this: you are not just capable; you are extraordinary. Your journey has shaped you into someone resilient, brave, and deeply compassionate. The world may not always understand you, but you have already shown that you can rise above anything. And wherever you go next, we will be right beside you, cheering you on, every step of the way.